“I don’t trust federal buildings anymore, what with the monitoring,” she said. Hester turned to Mike. “I assume you filled in your wife?”

“I did.”

“So you can probably guess the deal. They have dozens of what appear to be fake prescriptions written by you. This Club Jaguar was wise enough to use a variety of pharmacies. They got them filled in state, out of state, through the Internet, wherever. Refills too. The fed’s theory is fairly obvious.”

“They think Adam stole them,” Mike said.

“Yep. And they have a fair amount of evidence.”

“Like?”

“Like they know your son attended pharm parties. At least, that’s what they claim. They were also on the street outside this Club Jaguar last night. They saw Adam go in and a little later they spotted you too.”

“They saw me get attacked?”

“They claim you ducked into an alley and they didn’t know until later what went on in there. They were watching the club.”

“And Adam was there?”

“That’s what they claim. But they won’t tell me anything else. Like if they saw him leave. But make no mistake about it. They want to find your son. They want him to turn state’s evidence against Club Jaguar or whoever runs it. He’s a kid, they say. He’ll get a slap on the wrist if he cooperates.”

“What did you say?” Tia asked.

“First I did the dance. I denied that your son knows anything about these parties or your prescription pads. Then I asked what their offer meant in terms of sentencing and charges. They aren’t ready to be specific.”

Tia said, “Adam wouldn’t steal Mike’s prescription pads. He knows better.”

Hester just gave her flat eyes. Tia realized how naïve her protestations sounded.

“You know the score,” Hester said. “It doesn’t matter what you think or what I think. I’m telling you their theory. And they have a lever. You, Dr. Baye.”

“How so?”

“They’re pretending that they’re not totally convinced you weren’t in on this. They point out, for example, that last night you were on your way to Club Jaguar when you had a violent run-in with several men who hang out there. How would you know about the place, unless you were involved? Why were you in the neighborhood?”

“I was looking for my son.”

“And how did you know your son was there? Don’t answer that, we all know. But you see my point. They can make a case that you’re in cahoots with this Rosemary McDevitt. You’re an adult and a physician. You’d give the task force nice headlines and serve serious prison time. And if you’re dumb enough to think you should take the bullet for this instead of your son, well, they can then say you and Adam were both in on it. Adam started it off. He went to pharm parties. He and the Club Jaguar lady saw a way of making extra money via a legit doctor. They approached you.”

“That’s insane.”

“No, it’s not. They have your prescriptions. That’s solid evidence, in their view. Do you know how much money this involves? OxyContin is worth a fortune. It’s becoming an epidemic problem. And you, Dr. Baye, would make for a wonderful example. You, Dr. Baye, would be the poster boy for being very careful with how you dispense your prescriptions. I might get you off, sure. I probably will. But at what cost?”

“So what do you advise?”

“While I abhor cooperating, I think that may end up being our best bet. But that’s premature. Right now we need to find Adam. We sit him down and find out exactly what happened here. Then we make the informed decision.”

LOREN Muse handed the photograph to Neil Cordova.

“That’s Reba,” he said.

“Yes, I know,” Muse said. “This is a picture from a security camera at the Target where she shopped yesterday.”

He looked up. “So how does this help us?”

“Do you see this woman over here?”

Muse pointed with her index finger.

“Yes.”

“Do you know her?”

“No, I don’t think so. Do you have a different angle?”

Muse handed him the second photograph. Neil Cordova concentrated on the image, wishing that he’d find something tangible to help out here. But he just shook his head. “Who is she?”

“There was a witness who saw your wife get in a van and saw another woman drive off in Reba’s Acura. We had that witness watch the surveillance tapes. He says that’s the woman.”

He looked again. “I don’t know her.”

“Okay, Mr. Cordova, thank you. I’ll be right back.”

“Can I keep the picture? In case something comes to me?”

“Sure.”

He stared, still stunned from identifying the body. Muse stepped out. She headed down the hallway. The receptionist waved her by. She knocked on Paul Copeland’s door. He shouted for her to come in.

Cope sat at a table with a video monitor on it. The county office doesn’t use one-way mirrors in the interrogation rooms. They use a TV camera. Cope had been watching. His eyes were still on the screen, watching Neil Cordova.

“Something else just came in,” Cope said to her.

“Oh?”

“Marianne Gillespie was staying at the Travelodge in Livingston. She was supposed to check out this morning. We also have a hotel staff member who saw Marianne take a man back to her room.”

“When?”

“He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was four, five days ago, around the time she first checked in.”

Muse nodded. “This is huge.”

Cope kept his eyes on the monitor. “Maybe we should hold a news conference. Blow up the image of that woman in the surveillance photo. See if anyone can identify her.”

“Maybe. I hate to open it up to the public if we don’t have to.”

Cope kept studying the husband on the TV monitor. Muse wondered what he was thinking. Cope had known so much damn tragedy, including the death of his first wife. Muse glanced about the office. There were five new iPods, still in the boxes, sitting on the table. “What’s this?” she asked.

“iPods.”

“I know that. I mean, what are they for?”

Cope’s gaze never left Cordova’s. “I’m almost hoping he did it.”

“Cordova? He didn’t.”

“I know. You can almost feel the hurt coming off him.”

Silence.

“The iPods are for the bridesmaids,” Cope said.

“Sweet.”

“Maybe I should talk to him.”

“Cordova?”

Cope nodded.

“That might help,” she said.

“Lucy loves sad songs,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Though a bridesmaid, Muse hadn’t known Lucy all that long or, in many ways, all that well. She nodded anyway, but Cope was still staring at the monitor.

“Every month I make her a new CD. It’s corny, I know. But she loves it. So every month I scour for the absolute saddest songs I can find. Total heartbreakers. Like this month-I have ‘Congratulations’ by Blue October, and ‘Seed’ by Angie Aparo.”

“I never heard of either of those.”

He smiled. “Oh, you will. That’s the gift. You’re getting all those playlists preloaded into the iPod.”

“Great idea,” she said. Muse felt the stab. Cope made CDs for the woman he loved. How lucky was she?

“I used to wonder why Lucy liked those songs so much. You know what I mean? She sits in the dark and listens and cries. Music does that to her. I didn’t get it. And like last month? I had this song from Missy Higgins. Do you know her?”

“No.”

“She’s great. Her music is a total killer. This one song she talks about an ex-love and how she can’t stand the thought of another hand upon him, even though she knows she should.”

“Sad.”

“Exactly. And Lucy is happy now, right? I mean, we are so good. We finally found each other, and we’re getting married. So why does she still listen to the heartbreakers?”

“You’re asking me?”

“No, Muse, I’m explaining something to you. I didn’t understand for a long time. But I do now. The sad songs are a safe hurt. It’s a diversion. It’s controlled. And maybe it helps you imagine that real pain will be like that. But it’s not. Lucy knows that, of course. You can’t prepare for real pain. You just have to let it rip you apart.”